I Have Made Myself a Weapon
by The Poison Ivy League
Summary: Barton is multifaceted, a real renaissance man.


_Standard disclaimers apply. Read, Review, hopefully enjoy._

Barton's dad may have been a drunk, but the man could hunt and fish. Taught his boys well, Barton grew up with a .22 rifle and a fishing rod. The old man could run them through the basics, taught how to handle it safely. Clint and Barney weren't allowed to shoot anything until they proved they could handle the responsibility, eject the magazine, work the action and clear the chamber, take it off safe dry fire in a safe direction. It was ritual. Mainly fishing and trapping to begin with, but watching the old man take down game, even while well lubricated, learning. Learned to fish; reel in bass, pike, trout and sturgeon. Gutting them, and scaling them. Learned to trap lynx, otter, rabbit, mink, muskrat, and beaver. Skinning them, stretching out the fur to dry.

Clint and Barney eventually got old enough, strong enough, and smart enough for more. First just waterfowl, pheasant, quail, turkey and small game but when the weather turned colder, they knew it would be time for deer. The patience was something Clint took to well, moving quietly and efficiently, the quiet broken by the crack of a rifle. Harold taught them how to bleed the deer out, dress it up. Sometimes there was bigger game, Barney and Harold didn't like that, when the bears, wolves and mountain lions strayed across their path. Clint liked those kills the best, the danger was exhilarating.

First time Barton takes down a man with a gun, he is outside the country for the first time, a tropical vacation in Panama. Out of the 200-300 Panamanian military killed in Operation Just Cause, Barton can lay claim to five of them; he gets paid for it, gets a promotion and a medal. Barton thinks he might like this job, the prey shoots back.

Jacques takes him under his wing next, teaches him a blade is can be more than a tool for cutting and skinning. The memories are still sharp now, the weight and balance of the knives in his hand in the summer sun behind DuQuesne's beat up old RV parked outside Chicago city limits. The hours adjusting his arm and wrist, the brush of his fingers on release, the sound of the point sticking into that old sheet of plywood. It took ages to hit that damn target spray painted on it, the first throw never even reached, the next few ended up stuck in the ground. The first time he hit the ply, Barton was a good two feet wide of the mark. By the time he hit the target, the wood was torn to bits, the paint faded and Illinois was states and states away.

Never missed it after that, fact is, old man Carson gave him his first shot under the big top was a knife thrower. By the time Clint could split an arrow with an arrow, he could hit a bull's-eye with a knife, meat cleaver, tomahawk, or an axe from twenty yards away. The Veiled Wheel of Death, the Devil's Door, the Double Ladder of Death are all old hat. Clint Barton is an impalement artist, can cut a flower stem at thirty paces, out your cigarette at twenty. Knows his way around a sword, knows how to move his feet, angle his blade; swing, cut and thrust. Knows what it feels like to have one rammed up in you, so deep it's a part of you.

The first time Barton ever kills a man, it's with a knife. Sinks it in, watches him twitch and gasp. Twists. The shower of blood paints his hands, his shirt, and his face. It's what he imagines being baptised like, born into a new life, initiated.

Buck Chisholm only ever taught Barton how to use a bow to settle a poker debt with Jacques. Buck was a drunk and a petty little con artist, but he could work a bow, work a crowd. Buck teaches Clint how to align his body, draw back the string, get the tension right. The sight, that is something Barton already has, learns to play that bow like an instrument. His body works for this; his back shoulders and arms coil and unleash. An explosion, a symphony. Flaws are exposed; there is only Barton, a stick and a string from the Paleolithic era. If something goes wrong, it is him. Clint ruthlessly eliminates weakness, draws the string back again and again, until sweat pours into his eyes and he can hit the target blind.

There isn't a target he can't hit, learns to arc and bend shots, use the wind and the temperature. When the lights go up for the show, Clint never misses, can't miss. If he misses, then he is just another guy with a bow and some blades. No matter how far the target, how fast it moves. By the time Clint ends up contracted to Uncle Sam years later, their training just gives voice to a language he has always spoken to himself.

The first man Clint puts down with an arrow is his brother. Barton doesn't speak about it, but everyone else after that is simple, like paper targets come to life.

Barton teaches himself how to fight. Sure there are instructors over the years that showed him some things, Louis the strongman, the military, Romanoff and others. Barton learned to kick and punch all by himself, fighting Barney and the kids at school back in Iowa. Learned how to hurt people in the system after his parent died. It's all just an evolution of that first time him and Barney went down scrapping in a heap in the living room. The Army calls it gutter fighting, Barton just calls it survival.

Sure, Clint is certified in several different martial arts, dutifully recertifies when the new Modern Army Combatives program gets adopted, but out in the shit, it's different. Romanoff likes to harp about how she can beat him on the training mats, but it's different, there are things he doesn't do there that he will out in the real world. Won't dig his thumbs into her eye socket, punch her in the throat, won't look to break bones. The training mats are a different universe from an alleyway where you can beat a man to death with a trash can lid, a hotel room where a lamp can be used to bludgeon and strangle, a men's room where porcelain can bruise, mirrors can cut and water can drown. There is no special training for things like that, no special skill. Anything is a weapon if you're in deep enough trouble; you just need the belief that at any time you need to hurt someone to stay alive. Romanoff likes to quip she knows X number of ways to kill you with X, Barton doesn't count or keep track. He has only ever needed one. Barton only needs to feel the fear. Motivated he can claw through your chest, tear out your heart, pry out your spine. Put him in the right place and…

Romanoff comments later, much later, that he has never pulled her hair before in training and she has never had to resort to biting to win a fight. Barton just shrugs his shoulders and comments it obviously wasn't "him", but knows different. He is thankful there weren't any loose pipes and wires within reach or that he never got the proper leverage on her to let her know how hard the railing feels against skull.


End file.
